


The Spider

by AVeryBlueGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Female Jim Moriarty, Female Moriarty, Gen, I May Write More, I Tried, Kinda, Moriarty is Alive, Original Character(s), Richard Brook is Innocent, The Reichenbach Fall Spoilers, not really - Freeform, sort of, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVeryBlueGirl/pseuds/AVeryBlueGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Brook really was an actor. But he wasn't hired by Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>An AU ending for "The Reichenbach Fall"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spider

 

 

**"He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. _He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them._ "**

**~ "The Final Problem", Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

 

* * *

"…you're me?" Moriarty repeated with a gratified grin. "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes." He offered his hand.

Warily, Sherlock shook hands with the consulting criminal.

Moriarty grinned again, but said quieter, "Thank you.  _Bless you_." He nodded to himself. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out. Well…good luck with that."

And in a flash, Moriarty drew a gun from his coat and fired. " _No!_ " Sherlock exclaimed, but it was too late. The man fell immediately, eyes staring, wide, at the sky, as crimson blood and grey bits of bone and brain splattered across the roof.

Sherlock staggered back, in shock, in horror. Of all the endings he had expected…none had been like this. He'd expected to kill Moriarty him, for them both to fall from the roof (one pushing the other, through which he hadn't estimated), for Moriarty to slip away again. He had not anticipated suicide.

And now—his last chance, his finishing card, his desperate gamble, his final chance—gone.

John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade.

Three of his only friends in the world. Not all of them—just the majority. They would die if Sherlock didn't.

As he turned to face the edge of St. Bart's hospital roof, to face away from the body, Sherlock did not hear the door open behind him.

Then came the loud click of heeled shoes as the newcomer strode onto the roof. The sound of slow, sarcastic applause met his ears and forced him to turn.

A woman stood there—neat auburn hair; cold but amused green eyes; a fair, calm face; professional, expensive clothing. She met his gaze coldly before throwing her head back and laughing: high, light, and cold.

She walked calmly, even as she neatly side-stepped the spreading pool of crimson blood and grey brain matter that surrounded the corpse.

"Bravo, Sherlock, bravo," she drawled. "Sorry I'm a bit late to the show. I had work—a lecture to give, you know. Ran later than I hoped; grad students are so _needy_ like that. But Richard here covered for me quite well though. I was afraid I'd miss his unwitting. swan song." 

She then deigned a glance at the dead man and gave it a look that spoke of inconvenience and smug approval. "He gave an award-winning performance, don't you think? BAFTA worthy, I'd say," she said lightly, nudging the man's shoulder with the toe of her shoe, something like a curious, uncaring child poking a dead bird with a stick. "Shame, that. But nothing to cry over. He served his purpose well enough in the end."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

Again, the woman laughed. "Oh, my dear Sherlock. _Really_. I know you can figure it out."

He rose to the challenge and sharpened his gaze, scanning over her as she smugly awaited his deductions. 

"You mention work, lectures, grad students. A professor then—which the state of your suit jacket supports. Probably tenured or well-respected, if you're teaching graduate students. There's a hint of chalk on your cuffs, unusual for professors these days to use chalkboards when most can use simpler, neater technology. Which suggests sciences—writing out equations for maths, or drawing out diagrams for chemistry or biology. Irrelevant, in the end.

"You're wealthy, your clothes make that plain. But you don't care to hide that, either—which means a more respectable and prestigious university that would pay a professor more."

She laughed, almost pitying. "You see, Sherlock, but you don't observe. Not to the degree I expected from you. I will blame the shock—shall I get you a shock blanket while I'm at it?"

His eyes narrowed at the references.

She offered her hand with a smirk. "Professor Jane Moriarty, hiiiiiiii," she said in Jim's singsong manner but quickly returned to simple, predatory calm. "Pleasure to finally meet you face to face."

Shock, wonder, and even a bit of undisguised admiration covered his expression. Her lips curled into a smirk.

"He only slightly lied to Kitty Reilly, you know," she told him. "He really  _is_  an actor named Richard Brook. All his credentials were real. The only thing he lied about was his employer."

"He was your front," Sherlock realized. "Every time you dealt with me...it was through him."

"Well, not  _every_  time," she shrugged. "I was the one who spoke through the hostages over text—though not the blind woman. I dictated Richard's speech for her. But it was always me. Even at the pool. You never noticed his earpiece, darling; I half expected you to call him out on it.

"I'll admit," she drawled, "Richard  _was_  a good actor. He was very... _enthusiastic_  once I gave him the details of the role he was to play. But he came off a bit strong—too insane, too imbalanced, too dramatic. He loved a good show, I suppose.

"Don't feel bad, my dear detective," she purred, striding up to stand before him. "He's been my representative for years. It started because of a scheduling conflict. I was to give a lecture about one of my applied mathematics theories at Oxford at he same time as I was to meet with a Serbian gangster. It was early in my criminal career and I wasn't well recognized, though my reputation was growing quickly. No one suspected that the powerful and wealthy Moriarty was a woman. Patriarchy at its finest, there. Richard was too skilled an actor to induce suspicion. He liked the money and had few scruples about working for a master criminal. It was risky, yes, but I had snipers looking out for him. After a while, he could usually predict my responses—well enough anyways. He liked to make an impression, which worked very well for business, so I let him continue. It was amusing, at least.

"I, however, prefer more finesse. One can't just walk around suddenly screaming threats at random intervals, now can you? I worked years on my reputation, how others view me—my colleagues, my students, my neighbors. They will all just remark how brilliant I am, but so modest, so polite, so witty—but harmless, sweet, darling. No one would ever suspect me for what I am."

His eyes were narrowed as he watched her. "The spider," Sherlock supplied for her. "Not Napoleon, but rather the Cleopatra of Crime."

She gave a wolfish grin. "D, all of the above. You're so flattering, Sherlock. I didn't know you thought so much of me!"

"This explains Jim's flirting," he said calmly. "He never seemed actually attracted to me anyways."

She laughed again—high and airy. "Yes, that was me. Though Richard rather enjoyed your reactions."

"Let me guess," he said slowly, "You are assuming I'm gay and likely think I'm secretly in a relationship with my flat mate."

Once more, Jane Moriarty laughed. "Of course not, Sherlock. Unlike the majority of your acquaintances, I understand. You and John are a couple. Perhaps not romantic at the moment, as far as you think, but two halves of a whole never the less," she replied. "After all, a brain and a heart are necessary to live.

"You and he aren't a romantic couple, that much is obvious to anyone who cares to  _observe_.

"Irene quite helped me discover that. After you rescued her in Pakistan, she went off to America, but not before coming here to meet with me, personally. She was one of the few outside my inner circle to know that 'Jim' was an actor."

She laughed again, careless about the corpse she studied idly.

"Poor Richard. Though I'll admit I lied about arranging for him to fake his suicide. He thought I'd have the gun rigged.  _Oh well_. His mistake to believe a woman he knew to be a psychopath.

"Nevertheless, he was a loyal dog, a competent employee. It was so useful to have him. You know, while your brother had him in custody for interrogation about the nonexistent key code, I was at work, completing the web that was our Final Problem. While he was being tortured, I was busy—bribing a guard at the Tower of London, threatening a man working in Pentonville…" she grinned salaciously, "seducing a man at the Bank of England."

"A woman of many talents," Sherlock commented.

Her grin grew to show her teeth in shark-like manner. "Indeed. But, have you any more questions, or shall we get on with it?"

Sherlock's face was closed-off and calm, but his eyes gave his inner turmoil away to the professor. Those lovely grey eyes that held fear for his three friends, worry for his plans, and a fierce hatred for her.

"The deal that Brook gave remains the same, I assume?" he said, voice steady. "They die if I don't?"

"Of course."

The consulting detective's eyes burned in beautiful hatred. "What is stopping me from killing you—right now?"

"Oh, Sherlock," she tutted. "What would the papers think when my body was found here, too? Hm? What would they think?

"They would see a covert meeting between the fraudulent detective, his actor, and an unwitting witness to their meeting. They would see poor Richard Brook, so ashamed of his part in your plans they he shot himself. They would find me, an innocent maths professor—Jane Moriarty—killed by the fraud before he leapt to his death. My surname would raise eyebrows, of course, but they would do their research and find my record unblemished and perfect.

"Because that is how concrete my file and reputation are. To my students, I am fond and funny, a little strict, clever in my wit, but dedicated to their education. To my neighbors and acquaintances, I'm sweet and caring, kind and modestly brilliant. To the press, I'm heralded as England's foremost mathematician—known and respected in the press for always answering their inquiries politely and wittily, the perfect interviewee. Willing to give a statement, always courteous, perfect record, well-known but not famous or even a minor celebrity—unlike yourself.

"I'm beloved by my fellow academics. I wrote a book— _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_ —that has never received so much as a single criticism! To my fellows, I am a genius, a flawless diamond amongst jewels. I am one of the United Kingdom's brightest and most beloved minds. You know, I even had the pleasure of meeting your brother, several years ago."

The detective's eyes narrowed.

"Yes, indeed, Mycroft!" she chuckled, condescending. "Such a perfect politician—handsome, polite, clever, a wealth of knowledge, and so careful at maintaining a leash on his emotions! One of my favorite politicians, if I'm honest. But he never spared me much mind—and why would he, for a simple if clever mathematician? 

" _No one_  would believe my involvement. They would see an innocent professor, who inadvertently got in the way of a narcissistic fraud. They would wonder—was I asked by Brook to accompany him as a witness, so afraid was he of his betrayed employer's revenge? Was the detective so enraged that he frightened or forced Brook into suicide then he himself killed me?"

She sneered triumphantly. "It would only damage your already ruined reputation more, my dear."

Sherlock asked calmly, "Then why not just kill me yourself?"

With a grin, Jane Moriarty shook her head. "I'm not going to kill you, Mr Holmes. I'm going to talk to you. Then you're going to kill yourself."

His eyes widened slightly.

"Oh yes, even then, Sherlock—even then, I had eyes everywhere, trained on you."

The detective glanced at the roof's edge and asked, without looking to her, "May I at least have a last call?"

Moriarty smiled. "Of course. And don't worry, my dear detective," she added. "I know about your Lazarus plan. I look forward to having a front row seat! If you can pull it off…well, I look forward to our next match. I do  _so_  enjoy matching our wits. Perhaps you will pose an actual challenge next time. Good luck."

* * *

"…That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." He said quietly.

In the silence that surrounded the roof, Jane Moriarty could hear the doctor's reply. " _Leave a note when?_ "

"Goodbye, John."

" _No—don't—_ "

For a moment, Sherlock stared at his doctor before hanging up.

Only then did she speak. "Good luck, Sherlock Holmes. I look forward to our next game."

He said nothing in response, tossing the phone aside on the roof.

From the rooftop, Moriarty could hear Watson's scream. " _SHERLOCK!_ "

The consulting detective spread his arms and fell.

Jane scooped up the detective's discarded mobile and left the roof, smirking all the while.

* * *

The funeral was a quiet event, though a surprisingly large one.

Mycroft had arranged all of it. Despite that he was the deceased brother, it was John to whom everyone gave their condolences.

No one said a word to the quiet woman in a black designer suit who sat in the back and merely observed the funeral, taking no part. No one noticed the hawkish way she watched everyone.

The only person to notice her presence was Mycroft, to whom she had nodded sadly in a silent conveyance of commiseration. He nodded calmly in response before turning his attention to more important things.

Jane Moriarty was smiling as she departed from the false funeral, already planning in her mind for the next stage of play in her game, while her next target stood numbly, despairingly beside the empty grave of his best friend.

With Sherlock vanished into Eastern Europe, it would be too easy to befriend John Watson, really. And it was the detective's fault for not protecting that weakness.


End file.
